


In Which One Doesn’t Feel Like They’re Good Enough

by clydefroggo



Category: southpark - Fandom
Genre: Crying, Damien Thorne - Freeform, Gregory just wants to help aight, M/M, Public Bathroom, i think you can guess what happened here, im gonna write a smut fic right after this aight, sobbing in the bathroom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:34:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22846447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clydefroggo/pseuds/clydefroggo
Summary: Some things you just don’t want to talk about.
Relationships: Christophe "The Mole"/Gregory of Yardale
Kudos: 34





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was bored. Really damn bored and so I wrote a bit. I haven’t written in a long time. My writing isn’t that good so expectations should be kept low at all costs. Includes non-explicit mentions of a terrible thing.  
> Really short and really lame.
> 
> wrote kinda as a vent

Wet. Violated. Disgusted.  
  
That was the current state of Christophe DeLorne. Wiping the wetness from his cheeks and staring at himself in the bathroom mirror. He couldn’t tell if the wetness on his face was tears or rain water. Most likely both. He took a deep breath of air. Breathing was a little bit difficult. His breath was shallow and low, and had a rather difficult time making it’s way to his lungs.  
  
Disgusting.  
  
His breath was ragged and he looked a mess, but he knew if he wasn’t home by 12:00, Gregory would be the prissy little bitch he always was. He knew Gregory would push him by the shoulders down onto the couch. He’d stand up and look at him with concern. Maybe hatred. It’s what he deserved. Then he’d be interrogated. But he wouldn’t tell. He couldn’t. He’d be hated, scorned, abandoned.  
  
Christophe didn’t exactly think Gregory would try and torture him. Gregory was a beautiful man capable of being terrible, though. His death wouldn’t be prolonged if he came back with his hair sticky, stains on his shirt, and bruises lining his arms and mouth. Gregory was merciful. Gregory would put the holster of a pistol to his temple and would press it too hard against the soft spot.  
  
He was ashamed to say that aroused him.  
  
Splashing water on his face was a little effective. Maybe it was to clean off the evidence. Maybe it was so he could stop thinking about Gregory. Knowing that Gregory would hate him for what happened to him prevented him from walking back to his apartment. What if it happened again, though? He’d be walking, unprotected, down the streets of a city that was unusually busy.  
It happened once. It could easily happen again.  
  
He should probably head back.  
  
He’d be safe as soon as he got home. Checking his phone, he realized that it was 12:02. He hadn’t thought to call Gregory, much less the police. The police operator would be angry and tell Gregory. He knew he was thinking irrationally, but his breath was ragged and his vision was blackened around the edges.  
  
Looking back into the mirror, he noticed there was someone behind him.  
  
Panic. He didn’t know what this person would want. He didn’t know who they were. Turning around sharply and pushing his back against the bathroom sink, grabbing desperately at it as if to keep himself up on his feet. His vision didn’t want to clear, though. He was scared, he was tired, he was in pain. Did one of the men follow him? He had gotten enough. He’d endured enough. They told him they were done with him, explicitly, and pushed him off to the side. Maybe this one wasn’t done yet. Maybe this one planned on kidnapping him and using him.  
  
Until he recognized the voice. Damien Thorne. He was good friends with the Thorne kid. They were always drinking buddies. Damien didn’t like to smoke. Not because it was bad for his body or the environment, but he said it was because the cigarette had a weird papery texture. Pussy. He had a fling with Damien, once. Before had been with Gregory. They were both drunk.  
  
Damien was still talking.  
  
He couldn’t tell what was being said, his senses were too foggy and he couldn’t hear anything except for indistinctive murmuring. It made sense. Damien usually wore a black turtleneck and black jeans. An upside-down cross necklace rested around his neck. The man was slowly approaching him, until he could see the reddish glow of his eyes.  
  
Edgy bastard.  
  
Christophe flinched as a hand rested on his shoulder, curling in on himself as if trying to make himself smaller. Less noticeable. The hand was quickly withdrawn from his shoulder, and he could see Damien raising a questioning eyebrow. His vision was clearing a bit, though. As well as his hearing. His ears weren’t ringing and now he could recognize Damiens face.  
  
“I’m going to call Gregory.”  
  
Panic. Again.  
  
He lurched forwards towards Damien as the man pulled out his phone. He was considerably more weak than usual, while Damien was a relatively strong man, despite his size. He was easily grappled away, Damien pushing him forcefully against the wall with one hand as he let out a pitiful little whimper.  
  
His stomach was turning in fright. Anger. But he couldn’t move. The hand was pushing into his chest bone and he knew the man had the capabilities to cave in his chest bone if he really wanted to, so he didn’t move.  
  
Hearing murmuring over the phone was a terrible thing. Damien was telling Gregory that he found Christophe sobbing in a public restroom. He was embarrassed. He couldn’t stand being embarrassed in front of Gregory.  
  
His vision was fading again, and the phone call just a few feet over was silenced by the white noise in his ears.

He woke up in bed, though. So maybe he was alright. It wasn’t warm, though. Gregory was absent. He knew he should have expected this. Gregory was loyal, and he was not. He went out, was weak, and let himself get hurt like this. Violated like this to the point where he hated himself because he could’ve been stronger. He could’ve resisted and put up a fight. If he had died, then at least it had been an honorable was to go down. Not just let himself get fucked in the face by a man at least twice his age. It was wrong and it was against his morals to just give in like he did. He was still in pain. He wondered if he was bleeding anymore.

Masochists, I tell you.

Usually, he loved to be manhandled. Pushed around. To the floor and tied down. Maybe tied together so he was as immobile. That was always nice. Being thrown down to the bed where he was dazed for a few seconds before he realized that someone was above him. Pushed into the wall, pushed against the countertop and bent over. That was fun. That caused adrenaline to run through his veins.

Being kicked around and punched until he was immobile was, on the other hand, not so fun. 

He knew at one point, when he was being manhandled last night, he had started sobbing and called out red. He knew he had repeated it multiple times. He had done similar things with Gregory before. But that was consensual. That was what he wanted. Was consent such a hard thing for them to want? Or did they find joy in the fact that he resisted? Maybe they had a fucking rape kink. Maybe they had a thing for resistance play? He knew some people out there liked it.

He even was one of those people! Not the rape kink, of course! But resistance play was something he enjoyed. Gregory was hesitant at first, because apparently Gregory wouldn’t know whether he was trying to legitimately get him to stop or if it was just resistance play.

They hadn’t encountered any problems yet, though.

Hearing the squeaking of the door, (he realized he had forgotten to oil the hinges earlier today.) he burrowed himself into the blankets more, closing his eyes tightly and curling into a fetal position as someone came and sat down on the bed, feeling the pressure shift.

“Are you alright?”

He didn’t answer.

“You didn’t come home last night.”

No answer. A pause.

“I was scared something had happened.”

“And apparently it did. I got Damiens call and rushed to where you were-“  
Christophe sat up to look at Gregory, giving him an exhausted look. The blonde was running his hands through his hair, looking distressed.

“I didn’t know what to do. You were passed out and I know how much you hated hospitals so I just couldn’t- I couldn’t bring you there because you hated them so much. I almost did and now I realize how dire this situation is and-“  
Gregory was speaking too fast, Christophe couldn’t keep up.

“Shut up. Hush. I’m alright, révolutionnaire. Now be quiet. I’m tired, okay?” He said in an exasperated sigh, his eyes half lidded with exhaustion.

Gregory looked only slightly surprised, before nodding.  
“Alright, alright. I’m sorry to bother, but you really should bring this up to the police. Things like this are serious. It could happen to someone else too.” He said in a rather soft voice.

Christophe only blinked twice, before shaking his head and burrowing himself back into the blankets so he could wallow in his own self pity and shame.  
“Not now. Later, maybe. It’s too soon.”


	2. Maybe It Is Your Fault

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christophe is a bit of an idiot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh, hi lol   
> its been a few months but ive finally gotten a bit of fuel to start writing, ig  
> i haven’t wrote in a while, so don’t expect anything even decent :>  
> this chapter isnt a vent like the last one uhh yea  
> my lifes been pretty chill lately :)  
> me and a few friends are planning on renovating an old abandoned shed we found in the woods. there are bullet holes in the windows and shit but 👁👁  
> oh well lmao  
> i went on a trip recently!! it was really cool and i hiked a lot lol  
> i also ate a lot. like, damn.   
> i had a lot of prickly pear flavored stuff lol  
> a prickly pear sundae, a prickly pear margarita (non-alcoholic 👉👈), and other things i cant think of rn.  
> i tried something new, too, a goat cheese and chicken enchilada and holy SHIT. it was great im still thinking of her 🐸  
> i got a new frog plushie lol idk what to name him tho   
> he sleeps in bed with me and fogr  
> i have a husband and 5 children now, all of whom i love very dearly 💞  
> im going back into behavioral therapy tho lmao.. round 3 😔

Christophe was still nervous.

Every time he’d walk by that stupid fucking bar, he’d almost freeze up. But he’d tell himself to keep walking, keep going. You’ll look suspicious if you don’t keep fucking going, he told himself. 

Looking suspicious is what got him into this whole mess anyways.

At this point, though, he’d stopped coming out of the apartment. Isolating himself from the rest of the world except from Gregory, the cats (Remmy and Barley), and occasionally Damien. But they didn’t seem to understand his need to isolate himself from everyone and everything. It seemed to bother Gregory, though. The other man would pace their apartment more often than he used to. He was distant.

Christophe knew that was his fault, and the thought made his heart feel heavy. He was going to be left- he was going to be abandoned. It was what it was, really. 

Gregory wouldn’t even touch him anymore- like.. Yea, you know what I mean. He seemed hesitant, more careful around him, almost like he was fragile. He wasn’t some fragile fucking vase, though. He was a person. He’d gone through too much to be treated like this. So yeah, Christophe was a little sexually agitated, but who gives a fuck? Nobody :>.

Christophe was getting a little angry, really. He was sat on top of his bed, glancing at the mirror. That of which was a pretty difficult task for him. He wasn’t a conventionally pretty person. His skin was tan and blotched with little drops of color, scars lining his arms, torso, legs, and even his neck. His nose was crooked and his teeth were all screwed up. In comparison to  perfect fucking Gregory. Straight teeth, smooth pale skin and a perfect fucking face. Christophe whined softly to himself, fisting his sleeve in one hand. He wasn’t going to rip the cloth, instead, it was a means of grounding himself. A means of not letting himself get lost in his thoughts. Laying back down, he breathed.

It was fine. He was fine.

Glancing at the floors of his room, he groaned. He’d have to clean them later- cakedand stacked from the floor were piles of clothes, almost like another layer. It was as dirty as a bombed whorehouse, and that’s saying something. Gregory didn’t like things to be untidy, especially in the house. Maybe that’s why Gregory didn’t like him.

Hey- speak of the devil. The man, Gregory, walked into his room, looking the slightest bit concerned as he walked over to sit down on the edge of his bed.

“Hey.” 

“Hi.” 

Gregory gave a little grin, glad that he’d actually even responded.

“It’s good to see you’re up.”

“Mmh..” 

Gregory didn’t seem to like that response, or lack thereof. He shrunk back a bit into his shoulders. Maybe Gregory had picked up on Christophes little pattern. He would keep conversation until he.. Well.. Didn’t. 

Once he just started murmuring softly, the conversation was over. From there on, it would mostly just be Gregory talking. That was fine with Christophe.

“How’d you sleep?” He tried.

No answer.

“Ahh,, okay, then..” Gregory looked uncomfortable.

“I could make you something to eat? We could have breakfast together if you’d like.”

Christophe simply shook his head.

Gregory looked a little hurt, nodding in acceptance before leaving the room, not bothering to say his goodbyes.

Maybe he was making Gregory hate him.

**Author's Note:**

> most likely wont be another addition to this


End file.
